Photography is a miracle

How could I doubt in the magic of photography, given how it resurrected suddenly my grandma?

This masterpiece as a woman, this painting that escaped herself from the Louvre museum, this being from another time, from a very distant past, and from a future nobody could imagine, this magic that tirelessly came back to life every morning, suddenly ceased to exist. As a teenager, I only had the approximation of my silences to answer my questions, any more. And only the noise of the crowd, all day long, to keep me company.

She just closed her eyes. Her face flew away to a mysterious place without any agreement from my side. I wander in a country, without any capital anymore. I don’t look for her in this brand new life. In this brand new death. And by opening a drawer, I suddenly find her. It is just an incredible miracle to see her face again. I smile, I smile, holding her miraculously in my hand, as if I were holding her in my arms again, as before. The picture is motioneless in my hand. But in my head, images suddenly start to move. A movie is projected in my mind, I am sitting in the very front row, and I am watching her talking, loving me, answering me and smiling at me, as before.

Pictures are the most beautiful sparks, I believe. They light a fire inside use and then leave it to our imagination to fuel the power of the blaze. To choose where to shine and also to warm up. Some days I only leave those little first sparks dying. In these moments, reality is the main movie I want to discover the end of the story. Other times, I’m feeding the fire of memories all night long. And I’m by your side, again, grandma. We’re talking. Old conversations and new ones.  But always endless ballads together…

Tonight, you may be there by my side… In any case, I know, since that day, how to find the way that lead directy to you.

How could I doubt in the magic of photography, given how it resurrected suddenly my grandma?

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